


The Paper in his Pocket

by Soncasong



Category: Carmen Sandiego (Cartoon 2019)
Genre: Character Death, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It hurt me to write this so you get to suffer too, Jeantonio, M/M, Sad, gratuitous use of flashbacks, loads and loads of sad, mind wiping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 03:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19967104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soncasong/pseuds/Soncasong
Summary: A heist gone wrong, a mind gone blank. Le Chevre lives with the fallout, trying to piece back his life without El Topo in it.





	The Paper in his Pocket

It was supposed to be a simple heist. Get in, get out. Countess Cleo was on an art kick yet again, her eyes set on the  _ Mona Lisa _ . Jean-Paul had promised Antonio a tour of Paris after their planned rendezvous with Tigress. A quick tour. Show off his hometown. Dinner under the Eiffel Tower. Maybe a stolen kiss. Or two.

Neither one of them had counted on Carmen Sandiego. In hindsight, they should have. She had thwarted almost all of their plans before, why would she stop now? Maybe being back in his hometown made him drunk. Made him careless. Maybe Jean had thought that since he was home, somehow, even Carmen would make an exception. A night full of exceptions, yet Carmen was still there. 

They had it in their hands, that beautiful painting, just for a moment. She knocked Antonio out against a podium bearing the bust of some eighteenth century philosopher, sounded the alarms, and chased after him. When Jean realized that Antonio was not with him, he abandoned the painting without hesitation and rushed back to the Louvre.

Antonio was already being led out in handcuffs, a matching pair of uniformed officers flanking his side.

Jean-Paul could never look at another pyramid again.

* * *

The other thieves gave him a wide berth when he returned to the island. Jean-Paul could not remember much from this time, except for the moment he walked into his - their - room, and found every trace of Antonio gone. The potted succulents on the windowsill, the framed picture of his old gang from Guatemala City, the stuffed goat Jean-Paul had sewn for him when they were first exploring the boundaries of their relationship. All gone, replaced by cold, hard, metal.

He remembered flopping down on the bed and noting, with a choked sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob, that they had even pushed their beds apart. Their beds has not been apart since that first night in the dorm.

_ Antonio jolted awake, panic in his eyes. He muffled the cry trying to escape from his mouth with a large hand, scared of waking the other students up. Jean-Paul rolled over, eyed the other boy, shaking, covered in cold sweat, hand comically covering his mouth, and smirked. _

_ “Bad dreams, big boy?” He whispered. _

_ Antonio’s eyes had shifted uneasily, as if he was weighing whether it was better to confirm or deny Jean-Paul’s statement. This earned him a chuckle from Jean-Paul, and just like that, the tension lifted. Antonio slowly lowered his hand and nodded. _

_ “Push your bed over, I’m not used to sleeping by myself, anyways.” That was a lie, but white lies are better than dark truths, sometimes. _

_ “Okay. Thank you, uh, Jean-Paul.” _

He picked up the pillow from the other bed and held it close to his chest, like how he used to hold Antonio. The other boy had fit into Jean-Paul’s arms so perfectly, so effortlessly, like two matching puzzle pieces. He took a deep breath, searching for any vestige of Antonio, for a trace of that musty earth smell he carried from the soil into their bed each night.

Instead, he got the artificial stench of disinfectant. They really did it. Wiped away every trace of Antonio from the island like wiping away a dirty stain. Jean-Paul broke. The pillowcase bled.

He did not sleep well that night. He never slept well again.

* * *

“This is a good thing,” Coach Brunt said, in that rough motherly tone. A slice of chocolate cake sat on his nightstand, brought in by the coach herself, “He’s just a burden to you, someone who’d have knocked you down.”  __

She patted him on the back with her too large hands, reassuring, he assumed. He wanted to get away from that touch. To stand up, spit in her face, and scream at the top of his lungs that Antonio was not a burden. Never a burden. 

_ Antonio stood shaking at the bottom of the rock climbing wall. Jean Paul was already at the top, about to check himself in with a new personal best, when he heard the shouts. _

_ “Climb the wall, cadet!” It was Coach Brunt, “Or do you want to drop and do push ups until dinner?” _

_ He did not hesitate. Jean-Paul dropped. He dropped past Black Sheep and Gray. Past Sheena and that quiet kid that was always smiling in the corner. Past Coach Brunt’s red screaming face.  _

_ Antonio was already on the ground, eyes shining with tears, arms shoulder width apart, about to lower himself to the floor. Jean-Paul extended a hand. No words were needed. Antonio took his hand and stood up. They scaled the wall together, one inch at a time, Jean-Paul rubbing small circles into Antonio’s back. He beat his record that day, for slowest time, but the look on Antonio’s face was worth it. _

_ Coach Brunt pulled Jean-Paul aside after class, “He’ll just be a burden. In this industry, Jean, it’s every woman for herself.” _

_ “He’ll pay me back,” he had said confidently, “I don’t do anything for free.” Unless it was for Antonio, but Coach Brunt did not need to know that. _

_ A slice of chocolate cake waited for him by his nightstand when he returned, accompanied by a haphazardly written note. ‘Thank you,’ in a script as hunkering and top heavy as the hand that it originated from.  _

_ Jean-Paul smiled and tucked the note away at the bottom of his drawer.  _

He was not brave like Carmen. If he was, then the officers flanking Antonio would have gravestones over their heads and he would be holding Antonio’s hand under the Eiffel. No V.I.L.E., no Carmen, no capers, just them. But Antonio wasn’t here. 

Antonio was not the burden. Jean-Paul was. A cowardly burden who could not stand up for Antonio then, and could not stand up for him now.

Coach Brunt left, eventually, finally. Jean-Paul took the chocolate cake, opened his window, and left it out for the seagulls to feast on.

* * *

He threw himself into his work, hoping one day, the council will approve giving him a base somewhere far away from the island. He ran into Carmen a few times. At first, she was still fun and games, teasing, asking where his partner was in that casually mocking tone she had perfected so well. 

Maybe it was the tight set of his face, or the way his eyes have lost their light, but Carmen quickly apologized before spiriting away with Yata no Kagami. It did not matter to him. He failed the mission, he had to do better.

He trained. He stole. He did nothing else. He eventually moved up the ranks, surpassing Tigress, then Mime Bomb, and then even Paper Star. The council approved a relocation, a new base for him to work out of. He picked Guatemala City.

Maelstrom had raised an eyebrow. The others in the council did not seem concerned. Or they did not care. Guatemala. Antonio’s home. 

They were not supposed to reveal anything about their pasts to each other. A liability on top of an endless list of liabilities. Yet he remembered the nights they would spend under their blankets, excitedly exchanging old stories and describing their hometowns to each other.

_ “What was Guatemala like?” _

_ “Crowded, and noisy, and so, so fun. We used to steal from the candy shop near the cemetery. The owner would get so mad. He banned us from the place, so whenever we got a new recruit, first thing they’d have to do is raid the shop.” _

_ “Naughty. In Paris, I only stole from food places when the going got tough.” _

_ “What was Paris like?” _

_ “Bright. Tourists everywhere, ripe pockets to pick. The best places you had to seek out from a local. There was this cafe I loved near the Seine. Great view of Notre Dame.” _

_ “Will you show me one day?” _

_ “Of course, mon ami. I promise.” _

“All in favor?” Maelstrom drawled. The other three council members raised their hands. Jean-Paul sighed mentally. With Shadowsan disappearing so suddenly, there was suddenly an impasse of power in the council. Without a tiebreaker, debates came to a stand still. Jean-Paul was glad a majority was reached, or he would have had to wait here listening to them argue for hours. He wanted out.

“Approved. You fly in five minutes.”

Jean-Paul nodded. Not much to pack. He returned to his room, opened his drawer, and put the old two word letter in his pocket. A small stuffed mole, matching the goat he gave Antonio so long ago, lie buried deep in the drawer. He picked it up, looked at it fondly, and placed it on top of the drawer. Travel light. 

He does not need anything else to make the weight in his heart heavier.

* * *

Guatemala was hot, steamingly hot. He weaved in and out of the crowds, walking briskly, with purpose. The locals paid him no mind. Good.

He was given an inn, an alias, a cover story, and was set loose on the city. An hour to acclimate, then his first mission. 

Jean-Paul had already found the inn. A small, homely place, colored a dull green. He wondered what color Antonio would have painted the place. He wondered where Antonio was. 

He quickened his pace. He passed the cemetery in a brisk pace, eyes scanning the crowd. No Antonio, just like the last time he checked, and the time before that, and every time he took a step since he has landed in this country. No Antonio. But there it was, a candy shop, proudly displaying its wares front and center. 

He had found it. His only link to Antonio.

Jean-Paul waited. 

Carmen Sandiego was at his next heist, as usual. He was used to ignoring her now, a constant pest in his side. Her taunts, her questions, sometimes her pleas. Jean-Paul heard nothing, until she had reached into his pocket and snatched a leathery piece of paper with two fading words carved into its surface.

“What’s this?” she drawled slowly, flipping the paper back and forth with a dangerous nonchalance. It was all just a game to her. Still.

“Give it back.” His tone hid the terror clawing at his heart. Antonio. The only piece of Antonio he had. 

She opened the piece of paper. Jean-Paul saw her eyes widened.

“Jean-Paul, I had no idea,” She reached out to trace the letters. Jean-Paul snarled.

“Don’t.”

Her hand froze above the parchment. Carmen closed the piece of paper slowly and offered it back to him. A peace offering.

“I don’t need your pity,” he said, snatching the sheet away from her hands. He left before she could say another word, before he could make an attempt at whatever treasure he was supposed to bring back for V.I.L.E.. The clawing at his heart did not stop until he was outside the candy shop in Guatemala City, overlooking the cemetery.

Jean-Paul waited. A thousand more people passed by him, a thousand false hopes and disappointments.

* * *

  
  


Jean-Paul was enjoying a cup of tea outside the candy shop when it finally happened. A young boy, hands filled with candy of all kinds, sprinted out of the shop. He did not hesitate. The cup fell to the ground, splintering open, and Jean-Paul rushed after the boy. 

It was a good thing the boy was an amateur. He was inexperienced, bad at staying inconspicuous, making it easy for Jean-Paul to follow him.

He was so close he could taste it. The months of waiting outside the candy shop will finally pay off. This boy was going to lead him to Antonio.

They wove through the streets of Guatemala City, the boy whooping at the top of his lungs, stash of stolen candy in hand, Jean-Paul tailing behind, brisk, easy, undetectable. The boy veers into a restaurant. Jean-Paul walks slowly up the steps, smiling at the establishment’s name. “El Cabra.” The goat. 

He did not plan far enough ahead to know what he will do once he meets Antonio. How would he introduce himself? Antonio will not remember anything, not the nights they spent under the blankets together, rubbing circles and squares and triangles into each other’s backs. Not the sandcastle they built on the beach that slowly turned into a fortress, a secret hideout when they needed private time. Not Jean-Paul. Antonio will not know any of that.

But he knew. He knew, he remembered, he will just have to tell Antonio again. To see Antonio again. To fall in love with Antonio again.

Jean-Paul opened the door.

* * *

_ “Still trying to figure out what your name should be?” Jean-Paul asked Antonio. Sheena and Gray has already came up with theirs, and Black Sheep was born with a codename. It was only the two of them, still wrecking their brains out over what they wanted to be called while the other three gossiped about the quiet boy in their class. _

_ “The Burrower?” _

_ “No, mon ami, it sounds so… basic.” _

_ “Why don’t you just pick an animal?” Black Sheep suggested in between hushed giggles, “It’s easy. Oh, and just translate it into your language.” _

_ “What animals burrow? Moles? El Topo?” Antonio frowned, shaking his head, “It sounds weak.” _

_ “I think it sounds neat,” Jean-Paul said, “You can be El Topo, I can be… Le Chevre. We’ll match. I take the high ground, you take the low. We’ll be unstoppable.” _

_ “Sure you will,” Tigress sneered. _

_ “I’ll pick it, if you go with Le Chevre,” Antonio muttered. Jean-Paul was not sure if he was imagining it, but it looked like Antonio was blushing. _

_ “Done.” _

* * *

__

“Fuck you! What’s the fucking truth!?” He screamed. A chair flew across the room. The gang members drew their weapons. He effortlessly kicked them away. 

A loud crash, a groan, a series of yelps. A gang member lied on the floor, face smashed into the concrete.

“Where’s Antonio? Where!?”

“We tell you,” one of the gang members said in broken English, “Dead. Shot in head.” The other gang members chattered their support. Jean-Paul looked down at his bloody hand, up at the faces of Antonio’s gang, and the world shattered around him.

Antonio was gone. Really gone. Not just the Antonio that loved him on the island, but the Antonio that terrorized the streets of Guatemala. Gone. 

“He’s gone,” Jean-Paul mumbled. The gang members nodded furiously. Jean-Paul barely remembered walking out of the restaurant. People on the streets stared and parted the way for him. He did not know where he was going. His hand covered in blood, face covered in tears, heart covered in sorrow.

Gone. Antonio was gone. Just like that.

He tried to remember Antonio’s face. Deep set eyebrows. Droopy eyes. A crooked smile. Eyebrows that laughed before he laughed and cried before he cried. He tried to burn the image into his mind, sear it like brand. He can already see it blurring, even through the tears. Was his nose crooked or hooked? Was his chin round or square? He should have taken the time to memorize all of Antonio. But now he’s gone. Gone. Antonio was gone.

He somehow found his way back to his inn, onto the bed that was his, but not really his. He wept, and when there were no more tears left to cry he summoned more through sheer force of will. The crumpled letter, the only piece of Antonio Jean-Paul has left, burned hot in his pocket. ‘Thank you.’ Antonio was gone. 

He was gone.

* * *

Jean-Paul eventually apologized to the gang members and paid for their medical expenses. He found Antonio’s grave, a simple, unadorned slab of granite, bearing his name, birthday, and the other date. Jean-Paul filled in the pieces with local gossip and hearsay. A petty squabble with a rival gang leader. A gunshot. The killer would be dead within a week.

“Wow, you look like shit,” Tigress said when they saw each other for a rendezvous a few months later, in Belize City, a suitcase containing a few hundred million dollars in her hands, “Still hung up over the mole?”

He slapped her across the face, grabbed the suitcase, and walked away. Tigress never talked to him again. 

Jean-Paul kept the grave clean, adorned it with flowers pieces of candy. The gravekeepers learned his face, then his voice, and eventually his name. ‘El regular,’ they called him. Every Tuesday, six in the morning to seven.

Today was special. A chocolate cake tucked under his arm, a stern expression on his face. Jean-Paul walked to the cemetery, later than usual. Bakeries do not open at six in the morning.

_ “Chocolate cake? Really, mon ami?” _

_ “For me, please?” Antonio gives him those puppy eyes and Jean-Paul was a dead man. How could he say no? _

_ They manage to sneak into the kitchen. The cook was two seconds from calling the cleaners when Jean-Paul quickly explained that it was Antonio’s birthday. A few minutes later, the two of them were snuggled together in their secret tunnel, spooning chocolate cake into each other’s mouth. _

_ “Mon ami?” _

_ “Yes, mi amigo?” _

_ “Let’s do this again next year.” _

He arrived at the grave, a sad smile on his face. He sat down, opened the box, and sliced two slices. One he left under Antonio’s name, the other he stared at for a long time.

“I kept my promise, mon ami.”

* * *

  
  


“They’re still sending you on missions?” the girl quipped in her lilting voice, too sweet to be genuine, “Please!”

“Paper Star,” Jean-Paul said calmly, “hand over the crown jewels. You know protocol.”

“Hmmmm,” The sound of rustling paper flashed through the air, “I don’t wanna.”

Jean-Paul was not going to fall for the same tricks as he did last time. He weaved through the paper weapons, maneuvering himself to higher ground, where the gentle breeze would render Paper Star’s shuriken ineffective. He moved close to her a few times, reaching out to grab the container with his assignment, but missing every time. 

At last, she had him backed into a corner. A star had nicked his face, another had torn through his shoulder. Paper Star skipped easily towards him, humming her tuneless song.

“C’mon, just give me your location and I’ll only cut one hand this time!”

He said nothing. Another shuriken flew past his head. Paper star reached into her pocket, pulling out an old, stuffed mole. Jean-Paul’s eyes widened. Antonio had given it to him, he left it behind on the island. 

“You know, I wondered who this belonged to,” Lies. She was just taunting him, with that sing song voice and that sadistic smirk, “You wouldn’t happen to know?”

He growled. She reached into her pocket again, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper.

“I wonder what this is?” 

No.

“‘Thank you?’ Lame.”

Not that.

“No wonder you’re so weak. V.I.L.E. has no need for people like you.”

The piece of paper turned into a throwing star, aimed at his heart. Jean-Paul charged. The world turned a bright, crimson red. Sound bled into colors, and Jean-Paul could not tell if the screams coming from Paper Star or his own soul.

_ “Mi amigo, what happened?” _

_ “Paper Star.” _

_ Antonio cradled Jean-Paul’s bandaged hands in his own, delicately, softly, as if they will fall apart if he was not careful. He ran his thumb in uneven circles against the wraps, face twisted into a frown. It stung a little, but having Antonio touch him was too good for Jean-Paul to pass up. _

_ “Mon ami, it’s not that bad.” Another white lie, but Jean-Paul was sure Antonio could see through him this town. _

_ The other boy frowned. Slowly, gently, he lifted Jean-Paul’s hands up to his mouth and kissed each one. Light, feathery touches, Antonio’s promise that everything was going to be okay. Jean-Paul’s heart fluttered. He was so lucky to have Antonio. _

_ Antonio was quiet for some time. When he spoke, there was a fire in his eyes. _

_ “She will pay for this.” _

_ Jean-Paul laughed, “You’re sexy when you’re angry.” _

_ Paper Star never bothered him again. When Jean-Paul grilled Antonio, the other boy only shrugged and gave him a peck on the cheek. _

_ “I took care of it for you, mi amigo.” _

He stood over the mangled corpse, a stuffed mole in his left hand, a piece of paper in his right. Strewn around them were discarded paper shuriken, a smattering of color stained crimson red. He unfolded the piece of paper and slowly straightened it. Once, twice, three times. A few drops of blood smeared the corner. Jean-Paul flicked them away and returned the piece of paper to its rightful spot. He picked up the case of jewels from the body and left.

Officially, Paper Star’s death would be ruled an accident. Professor Maelstrom became cold and distant, but that did not matter to Jean-Paul. The stuffed mole rested above his bed in Guatemala, the piece of paper lived inside his pocket. 

Antonio was still gone, but he had another piece of the other man to keep himself going.  
  


* * *

Time passed, Shadowsan’s vacancy was filled. No one approached him for the position, no tears were shed. He kept Antonio’s grave clean. He went through five chocolate cakes, then ten, then fifteen. Carmen Sandiego became a bigger and bigger threat, until all of V.I.L.E. was mobilized to erase her from the face of the Earth. Jean-Paul gave a cursory, disinterested glance at the order.

It was a surprise to him, then, when Carmen crashed into his inn, the redheaded siblings tailing close behind.

“Le Chevre, please, you’re my last hope.”

“Why should I help you?”

“Why are you still working for them?” Carmen spat back, “They’re the ones that took El To-”

“Get the fuck out.”

She left without another word. 

A week later, V.I.L.E. was dismantled. A letter came to his inn, asking him to go to the cliff on the outskirts of the city. A trap. Or an offer to rebuild V.I.L.E.. He had no reason to go. He had no reason to not go.

Before he left, he put the tattered stuffed mole in his pocket, next to the yellowed, crumbling piece of paper. Jean-Paul bought another chocolate cake. He cleaned the grave one more time, leaving a slice under Antonio’s name.

He closed his eyes, tried to conjure an image of Antonio, and found that he could not. A nebulous mass and a hollow feeling stared back at him. Jean-Paul opened his eyes. 

_ “I have something for you, mi amigo.”  _

_ “What is it?” _

_ Antonio shoved something into Jean-Paul’s chest, face blushing beet red. Jean-Paul looked down. It was a little stuffed mole, haphazardly sewn, one eye a little lower than the other. Jean-Paul stared at it in wonder. _

_ “It’s not as good as the one you made me, but-” _

_ “It’s perfect, mon ami. I love it.” _

_ Antonio was staring at his feet, shuffling from side to side. He ran a hand through his hair, cleared his throat, ran the hand through his hair again.  _

_ “Mi amigo, there’s something I want to say.” _

_ Jean-Paul’s ears filled with the drumming of his heartbeat, “What is it?” _

_ “I think I like you. More than friends. A lot more. Te quiero. Te amo, Jean-Paul.” _

_ He did not need a translation to know what Antonio meant. Jean-Paul leaned over, tilted Antonio’s face upwards, and guided their lips together.  _

_ Je t’aime. Te amo. _

It was a trap. Mime Bomb, thinking he was somehow involved with V.I.L.E.’s downfall, had lured him to the cliff. There was an explosion, a flash of crimson, the thwap of a grappling gun being fired. Jean-Paul found himself dangling off Carmen Sandiego over a hundred meter drop.

“Keep holding on, I’ll get us out of here!” 

He could hear the strain in her voice. The rope was taut against their weight, threatening to snap. Confused shouts sounded from above them, worried, panicked. His hands were clammy against her warm grip.

Jean-Paul closed his eyes. 

“I can’t hold on, Carmen.”

Antonio stared back at him, features clear as the day they first met, eyes twinkling, smiling softly. Those soft eyes, crinkled at the corners, the cupid’s bow over his lips, the swooping bent of his nose. His Antonio.

He smiled back.

* * *

“Inspector, are you sure that was Carmen Sandiego you saw?”

“I am sure of it, Agent Argent!”

“But what would Carmen Sandiego be doing in a cemetery in the heart of Guatemala city? It just doesn’t add up.”

Two freshly cleaned graves lie next to each other in front of Julia and Chase. Identical slices of chocolate cake were laid out in front of them. On one grave sat a tattered mole plush on top of a crumbling piece of paper, threatening to blow away in the wind.

Chase’s head whipped around, eyes flashing, “There she is! La femme rouge!”

Julia sighed. Fifteen years, and they were still chasing the same red thief, even though she probably just single handedly taken down V.I.L.E.. Chase has already sprinted off in the direction of the Carmen sighting. 

Julia rolled her eyes. She readjusted the mole plush, making sure the piece of paper stayed secure, and returned to humoring her partner on his wild goose chase. 

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to yourlocaldisastergay on tumblr and a mate on discord for betaing this work and catching all the times I failed to keep my tenses consistent. We desperately need to more Jeantonio content, but there's like barely any canon information on them so I guess we just gotta wait until season two comes out for more.
> 
> I swear if this actually happens in canon I'm going to riot. Jeantonio deserves to be happy, damnit.


End file.
